in my desk at the bureau. How annoying! I must send for
it!'

'No, Excellency,' I cried, springing up in a self-oblivion the most
complete, 'it is here.' Touching the spring of a secret drawer, I
opened it, and taking out the document he wished, handed it to him.

It was not until I met his searching look, and saw the faint smile on
his lips that I realised what I had done.

'Valmont,' he said quietly, 'on whose behalf did you search my house?'

'Excellency,' I replied in tones no less agreeable than his own,
'tonight at your orders I pay a domiciliary visit to the mansion of
Baron Dumoulaine, who stands high in the estimation of the President
of the French Republic. If either of those distinguished gentlemen
should learn of my informal call and should ask me in whose interests
I made the domiciliary visit, what is it you wish that I should
reply?'

'You should reply, Valmont, that you did it in the interests of the
Secret Service.'

'I shall not fail to do so, Excellency, and in answer to your question
just now, I had the honour of searching this mansion in the interests
of the Secret Service of France.'

The Minister for Foreign Affairs laughed; a hearty laugh that
expressed no resentment.

'I merely wished to compliment you, Valmont, on the efficiency of your
search, and the excellence of your memory. This is indeed the document
which I thought was left in my office.'

I wonder what Lord Lansdowne would say if Spenser Hale showed an equal
familiarity with his private papers! But now that we have returned to
our good friend Hale, we must not keep him waiting any longer.

* * * * *

I well remember the November day when I first heard of the Summertrees
case, because there hung over London a fog so thick that two or three
times I lost my way, and no cab was to be had at any price. The few
cabmen then in the streets were leading their animals slowly along,
making for their stables. It was one of those depressing London days
which filled me with ennui and a yearning for my own clear city of
Paris, where, if we are ever visited by a slight mist, it is at least
clean, white vapour, and not this horrible London mixture saturated
with suffocating carbon. The fog was too thick for any passer to read
the contents bills of the newspapers plastered on the pavement, and as
there were probably no races that day the newsboys were shouting what
they considered the next most important event